


The Sweater Curse

by ceeainthereforthat



Series: Appoggiatura 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, and there's no sex, but it ends happily, or even kissing, this takes place in the sad part of the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the original story, Castiel Bauer decided to make Dean a sweater.</p>
<p>This is the story of how it got made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweater Curse

**Author's Note:**

> for messier51, who wanted to know.

One snowy Christmas morning, a young knitter named Castiel Bauer received a gift of the softest, springiest yarn he'd ever handled. It was an Italian spun merino and cashmere in a deep, heathered brown called "bison."

He read the label, counted the skeins, and realized that he had enough yarn to knit a sweater, one with winding cabled knots and serpentine cables, or dense braids and arches called "horseshoe" or "stag-horn." He petted the yarn in his hands, resisted rubbing it against his face, and made a terrible, terrible mistake.

_I'll make Dean a sweater_ , Castiel decided, and doom fell silently around him.

Sam had told him to make something to please himself. The woodwind players he knitted with before Foundations of Psychology had sworn that if you knitted a sweater for your boyfriend that the relationship would end before the sweater was finished.  Castiel didn’t believe in curses.

Donna and Ann and Alexis said that it wasn’t magic, but a test of the relationship that most couldn’t withstand, a slow growing symbol of commitment.

Castiel hadn’t believed in curses, but he was nearly finished the front when Crowley came and told him it was over anyway.

.o.O.o.

He didn’t have to lift a finger to dismantle his life with Dean. Assistants did that for him, movers who brought boxes and packed, and Castiel stared at the soft brown knitting in his bag. The curse had held true. He wasn't finished, and his time with Dean was over.

He couldn't bear to touch it. He asked one of Crowley's assistants to take the IPad out, to remove the knitting and seal it in a box for him. He watched her tape it shut.

There was no storage room, so the box wound up in his clothes closet, pushed to the back corner.

Castiel tried not to look at it. He kept his back to that door, and kept it shut.

The morning after that first terrible day saw him at the farmhouse. Castiel didn't want to face the inevitable looks across the breakfast table. Castiel didn't want to talk. He didn't want to weep. Each word he could have said was a stone, and he wanted to set them down in mortar and keep silent.

The stones sat on the table with the pancakes and breakfast tea. The stones sat between him and his brother on the ride back to campus. The stones let him inside the place where his things were, and clicked gently shut behind him.

The silence fell all around him, and he felt the mistake that he'd made. In company, he hadn't wanted to talk, but alone made the words spin in his mind and threaten to trample his heart again. He couldn't see Dean. Couldn't live with him. Couldn't love him.

Oh but he did. He did.

He needed to get out of here. Go to class. Work.

He put his chin up when he had to open the closet. He kept his eyes high, and he didn't look in the shadows under his coats and shirts. He didn't look down, and he wasn’t going to look down and look at the box today, just like he wasn’t going to shove all of his coats and jeans to look at his collection of neckties.

Not today. He's got to keep moving, keep working.

He didn't look at the box.But it weighed in his mind. It was still sealed with tape. After a fruitless search, Castiel suspected that his missing USB charger was in it, caught in the soft deep brown yarn that Castiel had knitted because he didn't believe in curses.

He'd been a fool.

.o.O.o.

He nearly didn't go to the lecture hall early. Alexis and Ann watched Donna attempt to spin yarn on a drop spindle. They looked up when he walked in.

"You need to help her," Ann said. "I watched the video and it looks so easy, but--"

"Okay," Castiel said. He opened his bag and took out a plain spindle and a small corner of a batt. "First thing, you're trying to spin on the fly when you should be parking the spindle between your knees and then drawing the twist up the fiber."

He produced two more spindles, and the twins snatched them up. He told them the basics: spin in one direction, test your draw, take it slow. He taught them how to graft in more fiber without making a lump, how to dare to spin a finer thread.

"And finally, if you really like spinning? Get a wheel," Castiel said. "It's faster and easier than a spindle. You're learning the hard way because it's less expensive."

Students started coming in, and Castiel put his spindle and his fiber away. Donna watched him.

"You didn't bring the sweater," Donna said.

She'd noticed. Of course.

"No," Castiel said. "I...put it away."

"Oh," Donna said, and covered his hand with hers. "Castiel. I'm so sorry."

"Everyone told me about the curse," Cas said, trying to sound light. "I didn't listen."

.o.O.o.

He worked. He worked hard. He went to the practice rooms between classes and something in his eyes made students clutch their sheet music and explain that they were leaving anyway. He sat in front of the plain glossy black baby grand, and tried not to remember the rich grain of Deanna Campbell's solid mahogany piano, and tried to think of what to play.

He closed his eyes and turned his face up, and thought, help me, God. Work through me and guide my hands.

His fingers came down on the keys. They began the soft opening of [Sonata no. 14,  Moonlight.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT7_IZPHHb0)

Their first duet. Castiel remembered Dean's warmth lining his left side, his arm wound around Castiel's waist so they could both sit on the bench--Dean's left hand, Castiel's right, and the quick brush of their lips together.

His hands spoke where he was silent, and they knew this song. He didn't need to be able to see the keys, and after the first measure, he couldn't.

.o.O.o.

That first Sunday, Dean had come to Heaven.

Dean's cologne lingered in Castiel's memory, though it might be on his clothes. Dean had come, and Castiel knew that Mother had done it - he wasn't so overcome that he hadn't noticed her pie box out of place on the kitchen table just before Sunday dinner.

Dean had come, and Castiel didn't know whether to laugh or cry at his brothers acting together to keep him and Dean in sight and in hearing, stern and unwavering in their protection. Inias had shrugged at Castiel's sharp words on the way back to Castiel's apartment, affable but unwavering. Castiel may have been called stubborn as a stump all the years he took to grow up, but his younger brother Inias was a mountain.

"You left him, Castiel, and he came after you," Inias said. "What makes you think we wouldn't protect you?"

"You can't treat me like this," Castiel said.

"Like family?" Inias asked, and Castiel stared moodily out the window.

.o.O.o.

Castiel woke up that Monday thinking about the sweater. He knew his brothers and mother would be expecting a caller today. They'd sit Dean down and hopefully be gentle with him as his mother had never been with Michael's wife Sarah. Hopefully Dean would--

Would what? He didn't want Dean to agree to stay away from him. He knew that in his selfish heart. He hoped Dean would win permission to try again, even though it was hopeless. He wanted Dean to call on Sundays because even half an hour in monitored company with Dean was something he wanted badly enough that he would use it to get through the week.

When he'd washed up and dressed, he looked down at the box in the closet, still sealed with tape. He bent down and picked it up, light for its size, and took it to the kitchen. Castiel cut the box open with a steak knife and opened the flaps.

His hand sank into the velvety feel of fine merino blended with cashmere and he sighed. It was the finest yarn he'd ever touched - they kept merino crosses in Heaven, but it didn't compare to the touch of cashmere in the yarn Sam had bought for him. He lifted the knitting out of the box and laid out the back and the nearly finished right front.

Sam had wanted him to make something for himself. Maybe he should have done that. The sweater he was making was too small for him, so he'd have to unravel the work he'd done and begin again.

Castiel reached for the needle holding the live stitches and pulled at it, but stopped before it slid free of more than a few stitches. He couldn't. The sweater was for Dean. He'd knit every stitch for him, and undoing it felt like...

He couldn't do it.

He re-seated the loose stitches and left the whole thing on the counter. He was late. He had to go.

.o.O.o.

Knowing that he would see Dean on Sunday got him through the week. He just had to get through the busy days, work himself until it was time to sleep, get up and do it again. He survived until Friday came, and Inias would be by in less than an hour to fetch him. Castiel usually spent the hour practicing on the digital piano, but today he regarded the pieces of Dean's sweater.

It was Dean's naming day today, and the sweater had lain on the dining table for most of the week. He'd looked at it, touched it, but today he picked it up and took it with him to the sofa. He hadn't honestly expected that he would finish the sweater in time for Dean's nameday, even before the curse descended.

Castiel picked up the nearly finished right front and laid it flat. He counted the rows, double checked the stitches, and noted them on his sweater schematic. He wrote some more observations, and then wrote: recommenced Jan 24.

Knit four, twist four right, knit four, twist four left, Castiel thought to himself. He knitted the cabling side of the stag's horn and the return row twice before he packed the knitting to go with him to Heaven for the weekend.

.o.O.o.

"That sweater back is too small for you, Castiel Jeremiah."

Castiel wanted to shove the sweater's pieces under the cushions, but it was too late. Naomi Bauer stepped forward on quiet stockinged feet and picked up the sweater back.

"Oh my Castiel, this yarn is so fine," she said, and stroked the velvety cable crossings. "Where did you get it?"

"Dean's brother, Sam," he said, and knit two together at the top of the sleeve cap.

"And you're making it for Dean Michael," Naomi said.

"He likes brown."

"You're still making it for Dean Michael," Naomi said.

"Mother," Castiel said, and Naomi moved the finished knitting aside to sit by her second eldest son.

"You're being stubborn, Castiel Jeremiah, and you're trying to stand with a foot in each answer. You say you have to leave him."

"I do."

"But you knit him as fine a sweater as I ever made for Mr. Bauer. Finer."

"The yarn's from Italy," Castiel said.

"Don't misunderstand me, young man. You outdo yourself with this knitting. It's the best you've ever made. I would wonder if an outsider was worth it."

"It's not Dean's fault."

"He was the one who didn't tell you he had a hand in the group that paid for your schooling," Naomi said. "But do you know why?"

Castiel watched his stitches, counting with moving lips to the end of the row. "He said he barely thought of it."

"He believes he isn't worthy of it," Naomi corrected. "He pretends his presence doesn't matter. He didn't work to become worthy, Castiel. That's my fear for you, that you're giving your heart to someone who won't work to deserve it, because he doesn't believe he can."

"He came to you on Monday," Castiel said. "And he's coming here for Sunday dinner, so you decided to let him come, Mother."

"He may not be perfect. He isn't who I'd choose. But he's who you chose, Castiel." She ran her finger along the twisting center panel on the back of Dean's half finished sweater. "And who you keep choosing, in spite of everything that tells you not to."

"And so you let him come to Sunday dinners, because it's what I want?"

"I let him come to Sunday dinners because he faced what he had done," Naomi said. "He can work to become worthy. I want to see if he does."

.o.O.o.

He left the sweater at the farm and took up a pair of socks. Donna had stuck resolutely to her spindle and filled it, so Castiel took her spindle with him to ply at home. Plying was quick and meditative, and he had their yarn soaking in warm water by the time he had to go meet Aaron at the gym.

When he brought the new skein of their yarn to the lecture hall, Donna, Alexis, and Ann were already gathered in a clutch that hushed as soon as he came into the room.

"What?"

"Nothing," Alexis said, while Ann said, "I saw Dean."

"Well, he lives close to here," Castiel said. "There's no surprise in that."

"I saw him here," Ann said. "He had a cello case with him."

That made Castiel blink. "He...could be here for a lot of reasons, even with his cello."

There were a lot of strings players here today, most of them much younger than Dean. Castiel noticed them in the halls, most of them already sure of where they were going, others bearing a map of the faculty of music and searching for signs that pointed the way to the hall booked for auditions.

Was Dean here to audition for admission? Castiel hoped that he was. He wished he could ask.

"Helloo, Castiel," Ann said.

"Sorry," Castiel said. "I was just thinking."

"Thinking hard," Donna said. "Do you think he's here to audition?"

"If he is, I hope he does well," Castiel said.

"You never told us why you broke up," Alexis said. "Did he have a commitment thing?"

"No," Castiel said. "It's complicated."

"Well, maybe you can work it out," Alexis said.

Castiel had to hope. That was his part. To not give up. To hang in there, as Sam said. They had a plan, he'd said, although Castiel couldn't imagine what the Winchesters could hatch that would fix the problem they faced. But to Alexis, Ann, and Donna, he offered a brave smile.

"Maybe we can," Castiel said.

.o.O.o.

Castiel had the sweater in his hands whenever he was home, which wasn't often. Calving was on, and he spent time in the barn making sure it stayed clean and the cows were comfortable. It was hard, dirty work that didn't leave Castiel much time to sit with yarn wound round his fingers and knit.

Sunday had him in the kitchen, cooking for the feast of lights. He'd managed a few rows in the time he had to sit down, but after that weekend he knew he didn't have enough time at the farm to work on it. He brought it back to campus with him that Sunday night, and spared thirty minutes each day to knitting. That was only enough time for a few rows, but he cast on the sleeves, and they grew.

He didn't bring it with him on Valentine's Day, even though he'd be going straight to the farm after the concert. He didn't want Crowley to see it. He already felt like Crowley knew something that Castiel wanted to keep a secret, and was just waiting for him to crack and confess.

"How are you, Castiel?" Crowley had asked, once they were in the hotel room where Castiel would store his things and change into his rented tuxedo. Crowley had ordered a small buffet of finger foods, and invited Castiel to sit down and share them.

"I'm fine," Castiel said.

"No, I really meant it. You're in a hard time," Crowley said.

"I keep busy," Castiel said. "I have classes, and I've started working out. It's calving time at the farm, so I've been there every weekend."

"One day at a time, Castiel,” Crowley said. “It’s all you can do. Have you worked out what your independent musical study will be? Performance or theory?"

"Performance," Castiel said promptly. "Professor Balthazar suggested that I try reducing music for strings to piano. He said he was impressed with my interpretation of Beethoven's Razumovsky quartet and my reduction of Danse Macabre."

"That's what Professor Balthazar wants you to do," Crowley said. "What do you want to do?"

Castiel shifted in his seat.

"There's something you want to do," Crowley said. "I can tell. But you're not sure you should say it."

"I'm not sure I should say it," Castiel agreed.

"Too ambitious?"

"Beethoven's thirty two sonatas," Castiel confessed.

"Do it," Crowley said. "Definitely. You've already made a study of his work. Dive in and do it. You can probably play them all anyway."

"Not really," Castiel said. "I have favorites."

"Everyone does," Crowley said. "It's rather more than a semester long project, isn't it?"

"I think it'll take me all the way through undergrad," Castiel said. "Maybe even past it."

"I think you should do it, Castiel. The foundation will fund your pursuit."

Castiel stared. Extra funding from the foundation? Above and beyond his scholarship? "How can you say that?"

"Because I'm the one who will sign off on it," Crowley said. "Beethoven drives your passion for piano, and you should stay in touch with that."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because showcasing your talent for the Foundation will benefit the foundation for fund raising," Crowley said. "Your success as a professional musician will reflect back on us. Why wouldn't the foundation support the beginning of your career?"

Castiel looked down at the bite sized crab cakes on his plate. What he did reflected on the foundation. He knew that, like he knew that he needed the foundation's support, and here was Crowley, offering more.

Was this supposed to be a bribe? Something to help him forget what he would always remember? "It's a good idea," Castiel said.

"You don't have to agree to it right away. This is blue-sky thinking, Castiel, exploring the possibilities."

"So I don't have to say yes?"

"You can come up with a different idea entirely," Crowley said. "Just promise me that you'll come to me for the help the foundation can give."

Castiel stuffed a Brie tart in his mouth so he wouldn't have to answer right away. He looked out the window at the view of the city, already cloaked in sunset.

"How about we meet again in a month and see what happens?" Castiel didn't want to say yes. He shouldn't say yes. He didn't want anything from Crowley, and he certainly didn't want to be in his debt.

"Take some time to think about what you want," Crowley said. "The offer will still be there in a month."

Castiel wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I think it's time to get dressed." He left the table, shut himself into the suite's opulent bathroom, and shook.

.o.O.o.

Castiel had spent the whole of Valentine's weekend without Dean's sweater, and when he got to it, he was tempted to put it back in the box. Maybe starting it again was what started this predicament. Maybe if he hadn't decided to finish it he'd be resolute.

Instead, he'd been selfish and foolish. He'd gone upstairs with Dean after the Love of Music event. And maybe they wouldn't have gotten caught, if Castiel had done what his conscience told him. Instead, he'd been selfish and foolish. He fell asleep with Dean murmuring the story of Bilbo Baggins and his adventure in his ear. He went along to record a song with Dean and Sam, to plaster on the Internet for everyone to see. He let Dean drive him back to Heaven, to stroll up the short walk to the farmhouse bold as you please, both of them in last night's rumpled evening dress.

Selfish and foolish.

That was when Mother quit listening to him. She'd been a little stern with Dean, telling him that keeping your intended out all night was a tactic for desperate suitors, but that what was done, was done, and Dean had ducked his head and said, "yes, ma'am" at all the right places, took his licks, and showed up the next day, nodding in approval at all of the qualities that would make Castiel a fine spouse, just as if they could get married.

That Sunday had left Castiel angry and confused, with one foot in Yes we can and the other foot in No we can't - wishing fervently for one while knowing that the other was probably true. I don't know what to do, Castiel thought, and no one can show me the way.

He needed a clear heart. He wanted to know what would happen, so he could decide what to do. He wanted to ask God to guide him, and that was just the same as wanting to know what would happen before deciding what to do, so he kept silent. He touched the soft yarn and traced the twisting knots over the sleeve. I don't know what to do, Castiel thought, but I know what I want to do.

Castiel picked up the sweater sleeve, wound the yarn around his fingers, and knit.

.o.O.o.

"You're knitting it again," Alexis said.

"I'm knitting it again," Castiel confirmed.

Donna and Ann watched him pick up, drop, and shift stitches in a moment of silence before they settled in seats around Castiel.

"Are you back together?" Ann asked, once Castiel was purling back along the twisted knitting.

"I don't…no," Castiel said. "We're not back together."

"But?"

Castiel smiled at Donna, who grinned like she already knew the answer. "But we're going to have lunch after class."

"Food court or restaurant?"

"I'm going over to his place," Castiel said.

"You're going to get back together," Ann declared.

"That's wonderful," Alexis said.

"What did you even break up over?" Donna asked. "You never said."

"It was just foolishness," Castiel said. "I believed something that wasn't true, and now I know better."

.o.O.o.

Castiel finished Dean’s sweater where he began it: sitting on the couch with Dean while he watched movies.  He sewed on the last button, and held the sweater up by the shoulders, giving it one last inspection.

"Dean."

Dean looked up from contemplating his engagement ring. "Cas?"

"Will you do me a favor? I need you to try this on."

"You need me to--Cas," Dean looked like he'd just been caught by headlights in the middle of the night. "You--that's for me?"

"It's for you."

"All along, you--it took you weeks," Dean said. "Months."

"There was a break in the middle," Castiel said, and stood up, holding the sweater out. Dean turned around and let Castiel slide it over his shoulders, then turned around and let Castiel fasten the front buttons.

"Cas," Dean said, running his hands over the twisting cables and braids. "I can't…thank you enough."

"Yes you can," Castiel said.

"You started knitting it again." Dean traced the path of a braid up his left sleeve.  "You had to have, you were working on the front bits when I left for LA."

"I did."

"While we were apart," Dean said.

"You told me to have faith," Castiel said, and touched a stag-horn cable on Dean's chest. "And I know exactly how you can thank me."

"How?"

"I saw the music you were composing," Castiel said. "The cello sonata. I found your notes for the courante."

"Oh," Dean said.

Castiel took Dean's hand and stepped backwards. "Come and play it for me."

 


End file.
